


streetlight imagination

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: You call him art and write of his soul.





	streetlight imagination

Beneath your side of the bed is a pile of notebooks.

Some of them have lines, some of them don’t, and some have loose papers and napkins stuffed into them from when you’d grabbed at anything available on which to write, when your notebook wasn’t nearby. But all of them are decorated in lines and lines of text, front and back, left margin to right margin, from the very top of the page to the very bottom. You’ve written poems all your life, of anything and everything of interest to you. And even things that didn’t interest you. You always took those as a challenge. It taught you to be flexible, to learn how to improvise, pretend that the subject was the most fascinating topic in the universe. The development of your skills is kept track of, from one piece of paper to the next.

You don’t share what you write with anyone. It’s cathartic, a way to get the flurry of ideas out of your mind lest they torment you to the point you can no longer concentrate on anything else. A lot of the pieces are garbage, you’re willing to admit that. But there’s no need for them to be masterpieces. Not when they’re for your eyes only. Your handwriting is illegible most of the time and even you struggle to read some of it, and there are tea and water stains from where you’d been a little clumsy writing at the dining table. You date everything you write to keep a record, for it’s easy to recall what had been going on in your life at the time with just a glance at that sequence of numbers.

It’s obvious the point where you’d met Eggsy. You were in university and he was off causing trouble and people told you he was bad news yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was quite the opposite—that he was the best thing to happen to you. And so you wrote about him, waxed lyrical about what his soul might look like, wishing you could reach out and touch it and receive even an ounce of the courage which passes through it. Because you knew everything about him the same way he knew everything about you, and you saw the fatigue in his eyes when he came back from seeing his mother and sister and there was still adrenaline coursing through his veins after another nasty run-in with his good-for-nothing stepfather. When his whole body is weighed down from the stress you see the determination flashing across his face in spite of it all and you’re proud because he’s the strongest and sweetest person you’ve ever met.

Not even Eggsy’s seen the poems you’ve written about him. You’ve thought about showing them to him one day. He likes to tease you and ask if you’re writing about him, during the times you look especially deep in thought, and you laugh and brush him off but most of the time he’s right. But rather than confirm it, you tell him you’re writing about JB (which you do sometimes, and it’s almost like the pug knows whenever you do, watching you with wide eyes when you’re on the couch with your notebook on your lap and a pen poised so comfortably in your hand it’s as though you’d been born with it already there). And Eggsy puts a hand on his chest, feigning offense, but the look in his eyes betrays it all because without even having to ask, he knows he’s been the subject of many of your poems, though he couldn’t guess an exact number if you’d asked. He wonders what could possibly be so appealing about him that would merit him being written about, but your mind is magic and your soul is passionate and so perhaps it goes without saying you could turn anything into art.

When you’re cuddling and only the light of the moon pours in through the window and it’s one of those nights where neither of you can fall asleep for one reason or another, you’re tracing nondescript patterns on his chest, gently with the tip of your index finger, and he’s fighting off chills from the light and feathery movement. You murmur quietly against his skin that he’s art, and his heart squeezes because no one’s ever said that to him before and he didn’t think it’s something he’d ever wanted to hear, but now that you’ve said it, he can’t stop smiling and he pulls you impossibly close.

He tells you he loves you, and that if he could write, he’d write about you. It makes you laugh and he’s memorizing the sound of it, memorizing the look of that silly grin on your face that he wants to kiss. You smile fondly, eyes focused on the way you pick at the corner of the novel you’re holding, running your fingernail down the pages over and over again. Then you look back up at him and he’s breathless at the softness in your gaze. And then you tell him that he makes you want to right wrongs instead of poems, that for all the years you’ve written you don’t think you could ever put onto paper the feelings you get when faced with a heart of solid gold such as his.

It’s not anything you can really explain, and vague though it is, Eggsy understands it perfectly. He feels the same way, drawn to you as he was before he even knew your name, and still now when there’s a wedding band on your finger, your heart a planet with a gravity that’s pulling him in, and he’s not resisting because he wantsa place there. From this vantage point he can see the universe residing in your body, pulsing with life and waiting, aching to be explored. Well, he did want to be an astronaut when he was younger. So he’ll venture out to those far reaches of the world you contain, and he only need look in your eyes to be reminded he’ll never be too far from home.


End file.
